


Better to speak

by alexaprilgarden



Category: Call Me By Your Name - All Media Types, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: (if only accidental and only very little), AU, Anal Sex, Background Casefic, Crossover, First Kiss, First Sex, Friends to Lovers, Italy, M/M, POV Sherlock, Sherlock and Elio talk, Sherlock understands a few things, Voyeurism, mainly johnlock, not compliant to S4, switch!lock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-24
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2019-02-15 13:39:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13032309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexaprilgarden/pseuds/alexaprilgarden
Summary: Sherlock and John are on a case in Liguria and follow a suspect to a small outdoors disco near B. Sherlock sits next to a kid, dark-haired, clever and absolutely and secretly in love with a handsome blond American man. Talking with Elio, he reconsiders his own feelings for John.





	Better to speak

**Author's Note:**

> AU where the story of CMBYN is set today instead of 1983. The events of this story take place during the two weeks after Elio and Oliver started having sex and before they go to Rome (a.k.a. they’re head over heels in love with each other). Sherlock and John are somewhere post-S3. Neither Mary nor Rosie exist in this AU.
> 
> Special thanks to @isitandwonder who prompted me with the idea of Sherlock and Elio meeting each other, to @unwinthehart who helped me with a few Italian words and the ever tireless @green-violin-bow for thoroughly beta’ing this fic (at Christmas!!). Also, I don’t know a thing about classical music, this is all @isitandwonder’s doing. Here’s a link to Bach’s _[Chaconne](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1zvRWFD_1_M)_ Sherlock and Elio talk about, which is admittedly absolutely beautiful.
> 
> This was fun, thanks to all of you! You’re wonderful. <3

They had taken a flight to Nice the day before. Getting out of the plane around noon, the sun beat down on Sherlock’s head. Summer in the Mediterranean is something completely different to the stickiness of London. He recalls this feeling — the _heat,_ the bright sunlight, a sea-salty breeze — from holidays he spent with his parents and Mycroft at the Amalfi coast when he was little. 

The sea stretched out endlessly, blue-turquoise and glistening with reflections of the relentless midday sun, as they drove along _l’autostrada_ towards B. in a rented car. Sherlock drove, and he’d had to focus harder on driving on the right side of the road than he would have liked to admit. He glanced at himself in the rear-view mirror; sunglasses and already a faint reddish gleam from just a few minutes of being exposed to the sun without sun cream. John was sitting next to him, looking out at the sea, tired, but relaxed. 

The case came to them through a colleague of John’s from the clinic. The family of his Italian wife lives in Liguria, close to B., and their house has been broken into a couple of times. Paintings had been stolen and since the family suspected that the local police might be involved, they ended up asking Sherlock Holmes for help. 

Sherlock had only taken the case because John had been excited to go to Italy. Sherlock doesn’t care much for holidays, and even less for brooding heat, the sensory overload of crowded airports and all the _people_ he has to put up with while traveling. But John does, and the prospect of spending a couple of days in Italy had lifted his mood more than anything else in the past months. 

After investigating the stately house that had been broken into and endless talking with the father-in-law of John’s colleague, they have narrowed it down to three suspects. One of them is spending the evening at a local disco, _Le Danzing,_ just outside B. It’s outdoors, a small dance floor, a bar, white plastic tables and chairs under the trees. Chinese lanterns sway above their heads. Sherlock does his best to ignore the music blaring from the speakers, the obligatory top ten rubbish. 

The suspect is a loud and sturdy man in his early thirties, who talks all the time. Almost bald, he shaves the little hair he has left. He is clad in a tight, light-pink La Marina shirt and white trousers. Sherlock suspects that he has connections to the French black market for art. He and his brother — a lankier and less irritating version of their suspect — may be meeting another art dealer tonight 

All the tables at _Le Danzing_ are already taken, but Sherlock spots one where only one person sits. It’s a kid of seventeen or eighteen, dark curls, t-shirt and shorts, watching the people on the dance floor. 

“Are these seats taken?” Sherlock asks. 

The boy looks at him. 

“No.” The boy shifts his chair a little to make room for John and Sherlock. 

Sherlock sits down on the other side of the table, facing the bar and their suspect from across the dance floor, just like the kid. 

“I’ll go and get a drink. You want anything?” John asks. 

“No.” Sherlock is already trying to focus on the work. 

Instead he watches John walk to the bar. He looks different here, more relaxed than Sherlock remembers him being in London. He has changed his usual plaid shirt and jeans for a simple dark blue polo shirt and a pair of chinos Sherlock didn’t even know he owned. He likes John’s sunglasses. He likes being able to see the skin on John’s forearms, which will take on a warm golden shade within the next couple of days. 

John is standing next to the suspect’s brother. He orders a beer. Sherlock frowns — _beer,_ in a country where some of the best wines in the world are made. John starts talking to the brother over his beer in what must be a creative mixture of Italian and English. They exchange a few words, and a bit of gesturing and laughing. Eventually, he strides back across the lawn to Sherlock. 

“I’ll stay with the brother for the time being, maybe have a little chat with him. Let’s see if I can get something out of him, right?” John says, putting his beer down on the table. 

“Yes. Don’t be too obvious.” 

John raises his eyebrows and sighs, pats Sherlock on the back and heads for the bar again, so quickly he forgets to take his beer with him. 

Sherlock watches John talking to the brother. He is laughing again and when the brother points out that John hasn’t brought his beer, John smiles, shrugs his shoulders and says something. Sherlock can’t hear it over the music, but he knows the sort of thing John will say. 

_Yeah, right, my mate over there kept it without even asking. He always does that._

Even if that’s not what’s happened — John will most likely act as if he hadn’t actually forgotten it, order a new one to stay there and keep talking to the brother — this is what characterizes them. John labels him _mate, friend, madman_ whenever necessary. He handles Sherlock’s quirks with practice and mostly with patience. He gave up asking _why_ and _how_ a long time ago. Sometimes, Sherlock wishes he’d ask. 

There are hopeless moments when it feels as if they are an estranged couple, only clinging to each other’s habits and clichés. Two people who work well together, perfectly in sync, but who have lost whatever used to connect their souls, and don’t remember how and when it happened. Two people who failed to reinvent themselves together, after life had irrevocably altered their younger selves. Except that they have never been a couple, never even defined what they were in the first place. 

At the bar, John orders a new beer. 

Their suspect leans against the bar, watching the dance floor as well. Now it is Sherlock’s turn to try not to be too obvious. He observes the boy sitting across the table, sipping on a drink. _A local, only child, Jewish family with an academic background, seventeen years, last year of school. Plays the piano and_ — Sherlock glances at his fingertips — _the guitar. A lot._

There had been something about the way the boy looked at him earlier, flickering away in a heartbeat. Sherlock knows that look only too well. Like the boy, he knows how to hide it. _Gay, then?_

The boy obviously isn’t interested in Sherlock. But there is someone he is watching while fidgeting with his drink. 

A girl of about the same age walks by on the other side of the dance floor, long dark hair and hips swaying with the rhythm of her steps. She briefly smiles at the boy, but it is tinted with sadness. The smile the boy returns is impersonal, a little uncomfortable. _Former love interest. Bisexual. Still figuring it out._

Their suspect is leaving, talking on his phone. He waves at his brother, signalling _Five minutes!_ with his hands and disappears from the bar. 

Sherlock is about to rise from his chair to follow him when the boy says in a bored voice, ”that’s Andrea Calcagno. He’s harmless. He’s always acting as if he’s on to something big. But he’s just a poser.” 

Sherlock turns to the boy, startled. 

“And how would you know?” 

“He’s our neighbour. I’ve known him since I was little.” 

“And do you happen to know where he was on the twentieth, between ten p.m. and midnight?” Sherlock asks, partly because this would give the man an alibi, partly because he wants to see how bold this kid is. 

“In fact, I do. A—” the boy hesitates, “friend of mine was playing poker in B. that night. The next day he complained about Andrea being the worst player ever. He said Andrea hadn’t left when he went home, which was around one. Happy?” 

“Yes. No.” One suspect gone, and he was the one who had looked most promising. “You’re absolutely sure about the time?” 

The boy looks at his drink, and Sherlock can’t tell, in the semi-darkness of the disco, if he’s blushing. “Yes,” he says, at last. 

They sit in silence for a moment while Sherlock mentally rearranges the facts about the art theft and the other two suspects. 

“Thank you,” Sherlock says eventually, planning to leave in a few minutes’ time. It seems there’s nothing else he and John can do here. But there is _something,_ he can feel it — something that’s about to slip through his fingers. “How did you know I was observing him?” Sherlock blurts out, realizing as he says it that he has just been very effectively deduced, without even noticing. 

The boy turns, smirking at him for a moment. Quickly, as if not to waste any time, “You’re sitting here, and you don’t look like you’re enjoying yourself. You’re tense. You’re from England — Britain, anyway. You’re… working. Besides, you don’t even have a drink.” 

Sherlock takes John’s beer from the table and takes a sip, still looking at the boy. “Here. Drinking.” 

The boy laughs and goes back to watching the people on the dance floor. And now Sherlock is able to see whom he is watching. A tall, blond man, not older than 25 and admittedly very handsome. Sherlock looks back at his companion. The last hints of laughter have gone from his face, and he is completely focused on the man. He watches his every move intently. 

_He looks as if he’s in love,_ Sherlock thinks. His heart sinks, and he knows with painful certainty that that is how he himself looks at John. When he thinks he can’t see him. 

Eventually he glances at his watch. It’s no use going after the other suspects now; one is probably across the border in France and the other is spending the night with the lover his wife doesn’t know about. 

Sherlock looks across the dance floor to the bar. John is still talking to the brother. Sherlock narrows his eyes, feeling the sting of jealousy. 

“Do you know anything about the Ottonello family? The ones with the big yellow mansion on the road to V.?” Sherlock asks. It’s worth a try. 

“Not really. _Il signor Ottonello_ is into art and both his daughters live abroad —” He stops and puts the puzzle pieces together. “You’re trying to find out who stole the paintings.” 

“Not _trying_. I will find out,” Sherlock states _._

“Okay. Good luck then. I don’t know anything else about them. They only moved here two years ago. They’re from S. originally.” 

The boy sips on his drink again, glass almost empty. He gets up and, without a word, leaves for the bar. 

The brother is dancing with a young woman now. The DJ turns up the volume. John is leaning against the bar, facing the dance floor again. Sherlock tries to spot the woman that must have attracted his attention, but with no success. Frustrated, Sherlock frowns. He at least wants to know whom John is interested in. 

Their gazes meet. Sherlock feels something charge up inside him, he is buzzing with energy. It’s tickling on his skin and makes his heart beat faster. After a moment, John smiles at him and Sherlock’s frustration is gone, swept away instantly. 

When the song is over and a new one that sounds just the same starts, the brother returns to the bar and talks to John again while he orders a new drink. 

John turns his head to face him, but he keeps looking at Sherlock for as long as he can manage. Sherlock’s heart pounding. When John finally breaks eye contact and engages in the conversation again, Sherlock remembers that John still thinks he has to retrieve any bit of information he can get hold of. 

The boy comes back from the bar, carrying two glasses of red wine. 

“You don’t like beer, do you?” he says, handing Sherlock one of the glasses. 

“No, I don’t. Thank you.” 

“You’re welcome,” the boy mumbles and Sherlock wonders if he should feel strange about being bought wine by this kid. But considering his upbringing and his intelligence, he is most likely only trying to be polite. Sherlock finds that he could have ended up with far worse, far duller company. 

The boy tosses a packet of cigarettes on the table and sits down. 

“ _Alla salute,”_ he says, nodding in Sherlock’s direction. He sips his wine, then takes a cigarette and lights it. Sherlock is tempted to inhale the smoke rising from the cigarette, but tries the wine instead. It’s good, dry and rich. He’ll stick to that. 

“I’m Sherlock Holmes. And you’re right, I’m from London.” 

The boy looks at him with thoughtful green eyes. “Elio Perlman.” 

Elio leans back in his chair, drawing on his cigarette, gaze fixed again on the blond man dancing. Sherlock sees a soft, affectionate smile flicker across the man’s face when their gazes meet. The man’s lips form a word, a secret message over the noise of the music. 

_Oliver._

Elio replies, barely moving his lips, not making a sound. 

_Elio._

Sherlock can’t move, can’t breathe for a moment. 

A split second later, he understands. _Nobody knows about them._

The secrecy Sherlock witnesses disconcerts him. He can’t determine the reason for it — _maybe it is too new, maybe they just became this, maybe they are worried about the consequences_ — but having to keep one’s feelings a secret feels familiar. He’d better abandon that line of thought. 

Sherlock waits until the moment is gone. 

“What do you think of Bach’s _Chaconne_?” Sherlock tries when Elio has finished his cigarette. He is starting to enjoy testing the boy’s cleverness. 

Elio casts him a puzzled glance for a moment, but skips the _How did you know_ and instead counters with, “Great. I’ve transcribed Brahm’s piano transcription for guitar.” 

“You’re mad,” Sherlock says, quirking a smile. But he’s intrigued by the idea of playing Bach on a guitar. 

“What do you play then?” Elio asks. 

“The violin. Helps me think.” 

“Do you compose?” 

Sherlock takes another sip of wine. “Sometimes.” 

Much longer than the promised five minutes has passed before Andrea Calcagno comes back. John, still chatting to the brother, laughs at something he says. Despite the fact they’re on a case, John is enjoying himself. Sherlock watches him. 

“You like him,” Elio states. 

“Well. He’s… my friend. We work together.” Sherlock tries to play it cool, tries not to be caught off guard by a seventeen-year-old. 

“You like him a lot.” Elio sounds as if he understands exactly how much of an understatement ‘liking’ is when it comes to Sherlock’s feelings for John. 

Sherlock can’t find the right words with which to reply. 

“Sometimes you have to ask yourself whether it is better to speak or to die,” Elio says, his eyes never leaving Oliver. 

Sherlock looks at Elio. Then at John. Again, there is nothing he can say right now. 

They sit in silence, and occasionally, they talk, playing bits of information they have observed about each other between them as if in a tennis match, saying something, countering it, quietly approving if the other deduces correctly. 

Sherlock watches John talking to Calcagno and his brother. Later John vanishes for a few minutes _(loo, obviously)._ There are more people crowding the dance floor now, and for a while Sherlock can’t see John at all. Elio, too, must have lost sight of the man he loves. 

They have both finished their wine and Elio has smoked two more cigarettes when he gets up, puts the cigarettes into the pocket of his shorts and says, turning, “Hey. You should come to my parents’ house for dinner tomorrow night. Your friend as well, of course.” 

Sherlock is taken aback. 

“Are you sure about that?” 

“Of course I am. We have dinner guests quite often. Actually, my dad loves asking foreigners clever questions over dinner,” Elio says, rolling his eyes. “Give me your phone number, I’ll text you the address.” 

Sherlock scribbles his phone number on the back of his business card and hands it to Elio. Elio smiles a crooked half-smile. 

Sherlock watches Elio leaving and walking past the dance floor. Oliver, still dancing, looks at him briefly. Elio’s face lights up. Oliver raises an eyebrow, questioningly. Elio gives the slightest nod in the direction of the street and he understands, smiling. Elio vanishes through the gate. Less than two minutes later, Oliver follows him, smiling a secretive smile, a smile which suffuses his face with such happiness that Sherlock realizes he doesn’t remember when he had last been _that happy_. 

With their lead gone cold and, Sherlock has to admit, Elio gone, there’s nothing left to do here. John’s glass is still three-quarters full. Sherlock looks at it and, contrary to his usual habit, drinks it without giving it another thought, frowning at the taste after the wine. He is not at all sure how deal with being alone with John, and with everything he feels. 

He finds John at the bar, watching the suspect’s — _former_ suspect’s, Sherlock corrects himself — brother chat to a girl he has been dancing with. 

“John. We’re done here. Let’s go back to the hotel,” Sherlock says over the music, leaning in to John. 

“Don’t you have to—” 

“He’s harmless. Not the one we’re looking for,” Sherlock cuts him off, repeating what Elio has said. 

John looks surprised, but, as usual, he doesn’t protest. “Right, then. Let’s.” 

He pays for his drink and follows Sherlock out of _Le Danzing._

Hailing a cab out here is a hopeless endeavour and the night is warm and beautiful, so they walk along the dark road to B. It’s not much more than a twenty-minute walk back to their hotel. A few motor scooters pass them by, the little engines roaring angrily against the cicadas’ gentle summer hum. They skim past too fast and too close to Sherlock and John, walking on the side of the road. 

When another scooter overtakes them dangerously close, Sherlock grabs John’s shoulder and pulls him away from the street. They stumble onto the grass, bumping into one another. Sherlock breathes John in, shampoo and a hint of fresh sweat overlaying the intense scent of the Italian night, thyme and rosemary and dry grass mingled with the fumes of _le vespa._

Sherlock feels heady being so close to John. He shouldn’t have had that wine. Or the beer. 

“Sorry,” Sherlock mumbles. 

“No, it’s okay. Thank you,” John adds calmly. “These guys drive like madmen.” 

They walk in silence, and Sherlock tries to think of something to say. He has never felt the need to make small talk; in fact, he avoids it whenever possible. He’s certainly never thought it a necessity with John. But now walking next to him feels too loaded to endure the silence. He feels sweat gather in the small of his back. 

John walks on the street, Sherlock in the grass beside him. John’s steps crunch, gravel on asphalt, while Sherlock’s are soft swooshes in the long blades of grass. 

They almost trip over a bike, carelessly dropped across the verge. Sherlock stops, spotting a second bike a few feet away. They are close to an old barn, surrounded by knotty trees casting sharply-defined shadows in the moonlight. Sherlock takes a soundless step towards the barn and John goes tense for a split second, about to go into _draw your gun and catch the murderer_ -mode, but then he puts his hand on Sherlock’s lower arm and gently holds him back. 

“Probably just some kids snogging,” he whispers and that’s the moment they both see them, just a few feet from Sherlock and John. If John had spoken a little louder, they’d have heard him. 

It’s Elio Sherlock spots first, his dark hair and, tangled in it, large, long-fingered hands. Oliver’s hands. Elio has pushed Oliver’s shirt up, his hands roam over the skin of his naked sides and belly. They are kissing. Sherlock can almost feel the air vibrate with want and passion. 

Oliver cups Elio’s head, tilting it back a fraction. Elio’s chest is heaving, out of breath; Oliver stops short, looking directly into Elio’s eyes for a moment — Sherlock can’t quite see in the darkness. Then Oliver leans back in, and licks into Elio’s mouth. 

It’s audacious and achingly intimate. They can _see_ the gentle strokes of Oliver’s tongue against Elio’s. They can hear Elio’s low moan. This is the most erotic thing Sherlock has ever seen two people do. Seeing this — hearing the sound Elio makes — goes straight to Sherlock’s body, claiming it and stirring desire deep inside him. 

The licking turns into another kiss, hungry and on the brink of something else, something needier and even more intimate. 

A few moments later, Oliver chuckles. Maybe they are laughing about an inside joke, the kind of small secret things lovers share in privacy and laugh about together. Foreign territory for Sherlock altogether. 

“Let’s go,” he hears John whisper, and his voice sounds hoarse. Sherlock slowly tears himself away, aware that he is staring. 

They carefully avoid the bikes on the grass and try not to make any sound until they are at a safe distance. 

Sherlock still doesn’t know what to say. 

Elio and Oliver looked _beautiful_. Sherlock has never found porn very appealing — informative, yes, and occasionally arousing on a physical level, but none of it touched him the way this has. 

To his surprise, John speaks. He doesn’t let the scene they have witnessed slip by and vanish, unacknowledged, into silence. 

“That was the boy you were talking to, wasn’t it? Elio?” 

“Yes.” And after a pause, Sherlock adds, “He invited us to his parents house tomorrow night.” 

“Oh.” 

They go on walking, and there is nothing but the sound of their steps, their breathing, the cicadas and a car in the distance. 

“I talked to his — boyfriend. Earlier. One of the few people who spoke English in that place.” Sherlock can hear the smile in John’s voice. “He’s a nice bloke, Oliver. American. Teaching at Columbia University, I think,” John says. 

John places his hand on the small of Sherlock’s back and for a moment, Sherlock is afraid that his sweat will soak through the fabric. The idea of John feeling his sweat suddenly feels too real, so very different from the fantasies he has had about John touching him, so much more human, so much more fallible. So far from the image of himself he has constructed. 

John’s hand rests against his back. 

His hand is warm, much warmer than Sherlock would have expected. Warm even in the night air, still carrying the day’s breezy heat. The warmth of John’s hand permeates the thin, damp fabric of his shirt. 

Everything he might have wanted to say before sounds inadequate in his mind, everything he could say about Elio and Oliver would with absolute certainty give away his own feelings. Reveal too much of himself, maybe even more than he would realize. The silence is awkward, it feels wrong, but there is nothing he can do instead. 

He would give John anything. He would hand over his body without a second thought, leaving John to take better care of it than he ever could. It’s futile even to think of handing his heart and mind. They have been John’s for so long. 

He is tired of waiting for things to happen, of hoping for something that might break the stalemate they have manoeuvred themselves into. He doesn’t have anymore energy to persuade himself it’s better this way. That John wants it this way. 

And as of now, he suddenly isn’t sure if that is still true, because John’s hand is still there. 

John doesn’t remove his hand, the whole time they walk back to B. It moves a few millimetres with every step, shifts up and shifts back. Sherlock doesn’t speak. 

John doesn’t remove it when they walk through the narrow alleys of B.’s _citta alta._ It’s there for everyone to see, for the couples on their way home from the restaurants, for the old men on the _piazzetta,_ for the groups of teenagers heading to the dark night-time beach. 

He doesn’t remove it when they enter the entrance of their small, polished hotel, or when he nods at the young woman at the reception desk. 

He holds it in place on Sherlock’s back as they stop in the silent hallway, between the doors to their hotel rooms. 

Sherlock tries to tell himself that John must want this, too, that there is no other explanation. Yet he can’t allow himself to believe it. 

They are standing close to each other and there is the scent of John’s body again, of his shampoo, of the beer he drank, of the night air still clinging to his hair. Sherlock can see the finest of lines on the delicate skin of his lips and all the shades of blue in his irises. He tries to recall the names of these colours — _aquamarine, lapis lazuli, ultramarine_ — when the press of John’s hand on Sherlock’s back increases. John’s eyes flutter shut as he inhales. 

“Stop thinking, Sherlock,” he whispers. 

And then — then John leans in and kisses him. 

Sherlock tries to understand, tries to process and doesn’t know where to start. 

John’s hand is trembling slightly against his back, but then it steadies, and John pulls him closer. Sherlock has to shift his weight to the other foot, he leans in as well and the light, dry touch of lips grows firmer. 

Sherlock doesn’t know what to do, he hadn’t anticipated this (oh, but of course he had, he had hoped for it with the despair of a drowning man. He had hoped for it so much that, possibly, if John hadn’t kissed him tonight, he might have tried to find a new life as soon as they got back to London. A John-less life, yes, but maybe a life where he isn’t reminded of what he can’t have _every single day._ This was his last resort, the hope that a life without John might, someday, hurt less). 

Sherlock just stands there, letting John kiss him and marvelling at the miracle that _this is happening. Now. At all._

John draws back, brushes his nose against Sherlock’s and asks, “That okay?” 

“Yes,” Sherlock says with a voice that doesn’t sound like his own, it sounds needy, asking _kiss me again, will you, kiss me, I don’t dare beg for it, but please, please kiss me, now._

John understands, or maybe he doesn’t, maybe he simply wants this as much as Sherlock does. He steps still closer, until every inch of their bodies are touching, from the left foot John places between Sherlock’s feet to the hand cupping Sherlock’s jaw, the other still resting in the small of Sherlock’s back. John feels warm against him, all strong muscle, strong hands, soft lips and hair and skin. 

John carefully opens his mouth and takes Sherlock’s lower lip between his own, sucking it very lightly. 

There are voices downstairs, talking in Italian. There will be steps on the stairs in a minute, people walking down this very hallway. 

John steps back and the way he looks at Sherlock tears open every wound that Sherlock has tried to let heal. John fumbles for his key and opens the door. The hand on Sherlock’s back guides him into John’s room. 

John doesn’t switch on the light, but he left the window open earlier; the street lights cast a faint light and long shadows. Standing in John’s dark hotel room, the air so charged, makes Sherlock’s breath and heart speed up all of a sudden. 

The high feels like cocaine, caught in the moment when the Benzoylmethylecgonine hits, and really, it’s the same surge of dopamine, isn’t it? But _this,_ the euphoria, the mania, the flashing thoughts, this he knows how to handle. He takes a deep breath and tries his best to ride the rush. 

Sherlock’s heart is still beating fast, but he tries to focus on the facts — John is here with him, he has brought him to his room, he kissed him not even a minute ago. Chances are that — although he still cannot believe it — John might want to kiss him again, or to do even more. Sherlock’s heartbeat spikes at that realization. 

He decides to take the risk. He might lose the only friend he has ever had. He will most certainly make a fool of himself, being the way he is. He will hurt John, John might even come to understand that it is impossible to be anything but Sherlock’s _friend, blogger, flatmate,_ given the little experience Sherlock has with love and relationships, with his tendency to accidentally hurt people, with his inability to deal with things like this. Sherlock has nothing and everything to lose at the same time. 

John’s hand drops from Sherlock’s back; he takes a few steps into the room and puts his key on the small table across from the bed. He stands there and turns, but he doesn’t lift his gaze to look at Sherlock. Maybe John has wounds of his own that are being ripped open again. 

With his heartbeat thundering in his ears, Sherlock crosses the small hotel room. He misses John’s hand on his back. 

“Touch me again,” he says. “You touched me.” 

John raises his head to look at him. He hesitates, but puts his hand back in its place on Sherlock’s back. 

“Like this?” 

Instead of replying, Sherlock kisses him. He takes up where they had to stop, taking John’s lower lip between his. John’s lips are warm and tender. He wants to _taste_ them, taste John’s lips and the inside of his mouth and he almost has to laugh when he realizes that this might be a perfectly acceptable course of action. He takes a deep breath in through his nose and finally dares to open his mouth, brushing his tongue against John’s lips. 

John moans, deep down in his throat. His body vibrates in Sherlock’s arms with the sound of it. He opens his mouth and grazes his tongue over the inside of Sherlock’s lips and against Sherlock’s tongue. 

Sherlock is shocked by the intensity, the intimacy. He is immediately addicted. He feels how this — his body, his desire for John, the enormity of what he is feeling — is starting to defy all the control he has so rigorously exerted. It is breaking irrevocably apart. 

He is scared of what he will become, now, here, kissing John with so much force, unable to go slowly or be gentle; oh God, what a horrible lover he must be. He is scared of his vulnerability, of the crushing wave of emotion he doesn’t know how to handle. And yet he can’t even take his hands off John, his hands that are gripping at him, his arms, his chest. He can’t take the tiniest step back. No, instead he is about to crush him against the wall or the table or the bed, he doesn’t care. 

And John reciprocates. 

No less intense, but more sophisticated, better versed at touching another warm body, another person’s skin, at kissing someone and knowing how to fuel surprise and want, how to please. Suddenly a wave of ridiculous gratitude for having fallen in love with _John_ washes through Sherlock. 

Sherlock surrenders to John, to his knowing hands, to his mouth, to his gentle, needy moans. He slows down, gasping for air as John kisses down his throat. 

“Talk to me, Sherlock. Tell me what you want. Tell me what’s going on in your mind,” John whispers against his wet skin, and adds after a moment, somehow both a command and a plea, “Let me in.” 

Sherlock wants his spit, his come, his cock, he wants him all over him, to feel his weight on his body. He wants to breach his body and simultaneously wants him inside, he wants to see him shiver, hear him moan, shout his name, fall apart. 

Every day of his life. 

For as long as he lives. 

“Take me,” Sherlock says, hoarsely, “and let me take you, too.” 

The sound John makes at this knocks Sherlock’s legs out from under him. In it, he hears the years of denial and the pain they have caused John. 

Together, they stumble to the bed and start searching for buttons, hems and belts. Uncovering John is like discovering him, acres of skin to be explored and tasted, thousands of soft hairs, from fine and barely visible white to dark-blond, carrying the scent of his body. 

Sherlock can’t determine the look in John’s eyes when he sees Sherlock naked for the first time. He wasn’t prepared for the amount of emotion he sees in their depths. 

John kisses and licks his nipples and it makes Sherlock’s cock jolt. John takes it in his hand, which gets wet and slippery with precome immediately. John pants as if it was his own cock he was touching, exhaling filthy little moans of astonishment. Sherlock lets his legs drop to the sides, revealing everything there is to reveal about himself. John touches him, he touches him everywhere and when his fingers brush against his hole, Sherlock pushes up his hips and yields himself against John’s hand. 

John probes him, forcing Sherlock to focus on his breathing until the unfamiliar feeling passes and gives way to a brand of pleasure he’s never yet encountered. John pulls out and pushes back in, tighter now, fuller; two fingers, then. Sherlock, panting, opens his eyes to look at John, kneeling between his legs in the semi-darkness of the hotel room. John’s cock is hard and beautiful and Sherlock props himself up on his elbows to touch it. A shiver runs through John. He lets his head sink back and groans. John’s fingers are still inside him and Sherlock feels the borders of his body dissolving. 

John looks at him. 

“You okay?” he whispers. 

Sherlock nods. He swallows. And forces it out, this thought that has consumed him, filled him completely at times, that has mercilessly conquered his mind and his soul. 

“Fuck me, John, fuck me. Please.” 

John abruptly leans forward to kiss him, fingers tilting to a new angle inside Sherlock. Sherlock hisses, and then something electric lights up inside him. He lets himself be captured by John’s mouth. 

“I’ll be back in a second, Sherlock, okay?” says John — _John, miraculous and perfect John_ — carefully withdrawing his fingers. He gets up from the bed and opens his suitcase, retrieving his toilet bag. He returns with a bottle of lubricant and a few condoms, foil crumpled. _Stuffed in there a long time ago._

“Sure about this?” John asks. 

Sherlock sees his eyes glisten in the faint light of the street light. 

“More than anything.” 

John puts on the condom. He kisses Sherlock with slow, open-mouthed kisses. He sucks his lips and his tongue until Sherlock start to grind his hips against John’s. 

He kneels between Sherlock’s legs again. Sherlock’s heart pounds, nervously. John’s eyes are wide in the half-light. The touch of the head of John’s cock against his hole makes Sherlock aware of what, of how much is about to happen now and for a moment Sherlock is scared he will lose his nerve, so he pushes against John’s cock, urging him on. 

It hurts, at first. Sherlock’s first impulse is to withdraw, to call it off, but he stays in place until his wildly beating heart slows down and the stretching subsides. His hand is on John’s thigh; he squeezes it, asking him to hold on for a moment. John is watching him, taking care of him, stroking his hand. Sherlock’s grip on John’s thigh loosens, and he nods. John pushes in a bit further, until Sherlock’s hand goes tense again. The sensation is strange, once again almost too much to take. 

Sherlock notices how blank his mind is. Not a single thought, no observations, just sensation, just John inside his body. When he exhales and sinks a millimetre back into the mattress, John pushes further in, and it’s easier this time. 

As the discomfort vanishes, something deep and primal awakens inside him. He is reduced to breathing and feeling and moving, oh God, John should move, _move,_ now! 

John carefully starts rolling his hips, closing his eyes for the length of a breath. Sherlock’s panting turns to groans. There is nothing he can do about it, about the way his body reacts, about his throbbing cock, about the profanities he sobs. 

_This is what it is like to be fucked by John Watson,_ he thinks, and moans and pants harder, John’s name and words he didn’t know he had inside him spilling out, over and over. 

Sherlock is getting close, but the arousal and the excitement induced by the sweet tease of orgasm hovering in John’s touches, waiting in his own skin, tips into a tightness in his chest and flows into a light wave of panic. He has to tell John. He has to speak. Better to speak. 

“John, you have to understand —” Sherlock says, so out of breath he can hardly speak, “this isn’t only _this_.” He pulls John down, closer to him. He is emotional and anxious, speaking too fast and too low, barely even whispering. Whispering into the crook of John’s neck, half-hiding, half-searching. “It’s not only _sex._ John, I — you fill my mind, John, you are everything to me. I can’t possibly tell you how much I — _need_ you. John. I need you. I need you,” he almost sobs voicelessly, “I need you. In more ways than I ever thought possible. John. John.” 

“Shhh, Sherlock, it’s alright,” John whispers and his voice sounds tight. He has stopped moving. “It’s alright.” He pecks a kiss to Sherlock open, trembling lips. “It’s alright.” 

It takes some moments until Sherlock’s breathing calms, and his heart stops raging in his chest. 

“It’s alright,” John repeats, still holding him close and tight, and this is more comforting than Sherlock could ever have imagined, John’s naked skin on his, John everywhere around him. “It’s alright, love. I feel the same.” 

They kiss, slowly and deeply. Eventually, the kisses turn more desperate and Sherlock starts to grind himself against John again. It doesn’t take much now, no more than a few blissful minutes of thrusting, gently at first, until Sherlock urges him, “harder, harder, _harder_ —”. He comes, crying out John’s name, unable to tell where he ends and where John begins. 

John thrusts into him only three more times before he, too, falls over the edge. He collapses on top of Sherlock, whispering his name. 

Sherlock holds him, his hand in the small of John’s back. It is sweaty. It feels amazing. He can feel John like that now. _Too real. Perfectly real._

John eventually sits up and cleans Sherlock’s come from their bellies. When he is done, he lies down and kisses Sherlock’s face again and again. 

A long time later, when evening has turned into the earliest hours of morning and the sounds on the street below have long died down, Sherlock wakes up. John is sitting next to him on the edge of the bed. He hands him a bottle of water. Sherlock takes a sip, realizing how thirsty he is. 

“How did you know Elio’s name, John? I didn’t tell you,” Sherlock whispers. 

“Oliver told me.” 

“You talked about Elio?” 

“Yeah. When we were chatting at the bar. He told me about teaching at Columbia University and so on. He saw me looking at you. He asked if you were my boyfriend. He sounded, I don’t know, _careful._ I told him you weren’t, and he went silent. After a while he said that I looked at you that way. I —I couldn’t deny it. He said he knew what it feels like. And then he nodded at the boy sitting next to you and just said, ‘That’s Elio.’” 

John pauses, staring into the dark room. 

“It was so weird, Elio sat there like a younger version of yourself, Sherlock, all clever and bored like you, but so much more emotional. Insecure. I wondered if you had been the same at his age, not hiding the things you feel and that I can only guess about. I could see you two talking, probably about something utterly sophisticated and clever.” He huffs a laugh and goes calm again. “Oliver was right. I had been looking at you like that. I’ve been doing that for a very, very long time. And I realized I regret every moment.” 

Sherlock pulls him down into his arms and they hold each other, their sleep-warm bodies. They kiss again, they turn, John loses grip of the bottle and spills water over them. It cools their skin, seeps down between them, runs down between Sherlock’s legs. They are sticky and wet again, as if they’d never stopped making love. But this time, John turns and pulls Sherlock on top of him; he guides Sherlock’s hand down to his cock and past it, past his balls. Sherlock understands and starts to stroke his hole, caressing and massaging it until John’s breath turns ragged. 

Sherlock fucks him, later, kissing him as he breaches his body and swallowing his moans when John comes. He lets him watch as he climaxes a few minutes later, losing himself, sheathed in John’s body. 

— 

The next day he gets a text with Elio’s address. They turn up at half past seven, the air still hot, and heavy with the scent of the apricot trees. 

A woman opens the door, nods at them and calls out, _“I due inglesi sono arrivati, signora.”_

She waves at them to come inside, guides them to the living room. While John greets Mr and Mrs Perlman, Elio enters the room, shorts and t-shirt and his skin still warm from a day spent in the sun. His green eyes find Sherlock, and he sees the difference. Sherlock hears Oliver’s soft steps on the stairs. 

“It is —” Sherlock looks at Elio. “Better to speak.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Merry Christmas everybody. :*

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [To speak or to die](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17444063) by [jiyuu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jiyuu/pseuds/jiyuu)




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